Salvation
by Jenn2
Summary: Michael finds salvation in a little girl and later in the woman she becomes. Some material may be too harsh for some people.


Title: Salvation  
Author: Jenn  
email: got2fly2u@hotmail.com  
rating: PG-14  
Cat: Michael POV  
Summary: Michael finds salvation in a little girl...and later in the woman she becomes  
  
  
A fist pounded into his smooth flesh and Michael couldn't fight the tears any longer. He saw the hand again, coming at him in slow motion. Michael ducked from the next blow aimed at his jaw this time. He was slow tonight, drunk again. Michael knew he could hold up his hand and this would all be over, he could at least move him a little bit. But he wasn't strong enough yet, the powers weren't developed. And if Hank remembered...   
  
Hot tears were stinging his hands as he quickly wiped them away. "You want something to cry about, you little fag," a voice screamed at him. He didn't know what the words all meant, but he knew they were bad. "I bet no one ever told you what a woman is, did they boy?" Michael felt a cold slap in the face. A magazine slid into his hands.   
  
Michael stared at the cover in awe. "Now that boy, that is a woman," he heard Hank say, his voice far away. A half naked being was lying on her back, arms over her head. Michael fetl strange reactions in his body. But he also felt pity for the woman. What if that were Izzy? It looked so wrong. "Boy," he screamed closer to his ear. Michael shook his head, not wanting another beating tonight.   
  
"You remember what there for, those sluts?" he hissed at Michael. And Michael remembered the night Hank had tied him to the chair in his room. 'I'm gonna teach you a lesson,' he had said. And there was a woman, not quite as beautiful as the one on the magazine, and Hank had done something to her. She had screamed, but it was not a scream of terror. Hank ripped the magazine from his hands waking him from the memory. "Look at it boy," he said. "I know you like it. I know you remember."  
  
He fought the tears, choked them back, let them tear up at his insides. He felt like he was bleeding to death, like something inside him was pulling apart and soon he would begin pouring out blood, from his finger and toes, through his mouth. And he could feel his blood pulsating through him, ready to find its escape, like a race horse at the gate. He welcomed the blood, the feeling of life, the sign of death.  
  
"Fuck, boy, snap out of it," he heard the man yell over him. He didn't know what this man wanted from him, why he kept him here in this house. Maybe it was the power, Michael knew about the lust for power, the need to control something. Maybe it gave him some perverse pleasure to beat him senseless, to scare a little boy so far into submission he wouldn't speak unless threatened.  
  
Michael tried to pay attention, tried to focus as Hank flipped through the pages of the magazine, placing it back into Michael's small hands. Michael knew he was too young to see this, knew it wasn't something he should be looking at. He wanted to throw it across the room, he felt dirty touching the pages. And there was no shower that could cleanse him of this filth, nothing would take away the knowledge he had earned this night. He had earned this, through hot salty tears and low moans he had paid for this knowledge. But Michael knew he would give up his home planet to rid himself of the information he had been given so freely.  
  
Hank finally passed out, the magazine still laying in Michael's lap. Quietly he laid it beside the man and slipped out the front door. Hank wouldn't notice he was gone, he never did. Well if there was laundry to be done, but that was done last week.   
  
Michael welcomed the cool air on his searing skin. Nights in Roswell were perfect, nights in Roswell was the only thing he liked about the town, nights were the part of the day he liked. Slowly he made his way through the trailer park out onto the streets. He let the darkness cover him, let it shield him from the world, blind him from all that he knew was true, but didn't want to accept.   
  
The silence of the air sung to him, the soft glow of the street lamps caressed him, soothed him. The night was his lullaby, his song. It washed away the grime of the day, bathed him with new life, gave him strength to carry his head high through each horror that faced him. He let the wind rock him, let it wipe away his thoughts.   
  
Michael looked up, searching for the silver moon. But it was gone, wiped out by a menacing cloud. There was a light in the window across the street, and a shadow was swaying easing the brightness. Michael could tell it was a girl, a small girl. She was curled in the seat by her window, and he watched, captivated by the small figure.   
  
Suddenly tears filled his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, trying to gain composure. But all the penned up anger, all the tears he had swallowed, came back a thousand fold, and he was powerless to stop it. He felt sorry for the little girl, felt sorry for Izzy, for all the girls he would never know, and hoped they would never find themselves on the cover of a magazine, bearing their bodies to the men of the world. He cried for that woman that Hank had made scream, he cried for all the women who had ever screamed. And he cried for the little boys who had known the meaning of fear, all the little boys who knew what it was to be beaten until you were blind. He cried for the days that had past, and the days to come.   
  
Michael kicked the wall, wishing it would just crumble under his foot, wishing he had the power to move it, to move something. But everything stood still in his presence. Nobody bowed or bent at his will. And suddenly he heard a window fly open.  
  
"Who is it?" he heard a voice whisper through the night. "Who's there?" she said anxiety strung through each word. Michael tried to run, tried to pull his feet off the ground, but her words froze him. He slowly walked across the road, wanting to see the face which spoke to him. Her window was low to the sidewalk and the light made her skin glow. Her face was round and familiar.   
  
He remembered her, he'd seen her before. She went to his school. Her name he couldn't remember, but he didn't want to ask. He just wanted to hear her voice, he wanted to listen to it until his life left him and his last breath escaped his lungs.   
  
"Michael?" she questioned. His name sounded beautiful on her lips, so different from when Hank screamed it with anger and disgust. It sounded valuable, like he was worth something. Michael simply nodded his head, too scared to speak, too scared his voice wouldn't be there.  
  
He saw her hand come towards his face. He pulled back slightly, but as her hand explored his bruised skin he felt a strange warmth go through him. He had never felt a human touch so light, so welcoming. Michael closed his eyes and let her investigate his flesh with her fingers. Softly she traced the outlines of his bruises, he winced when she pressed a little too hard.   
  
The little girl's hand ran down his face. He felt himself turn to water as her hand found his, their fingers entwining. Michael felt like he would melt under her gaze. It was steady and unmoving, something entirely new to him. Usually eyes darted from place to place, restless, never wanting to stay in one place, afraid. But this little girl was like a statue, she was different than anything he had ever seen before. She was quite, she was tender, she was human.   
  
"It's raining," she whispered close to his ear, helping him over the window frame. Silently he followed her to her bed. She patted the bed and he lay down, clothes and all. Then he felt her small body lay next to him. She reached over and took his hand again. Michael felt at peace for the first time since he'd been found in the desert. She made him feel like he was standing in the sand again, his feet digging through the warm yellow grains, his back baked by the sun above. In the desert he was one with the world, and in this girl's arms, he was part of the world.  
***  
Michael heard a voice screaming, a female voice. A sting in the leg told him he had been hit with something. He looked around trying to remember where he was. It was Maria's room. Maria was sitting next to him, her body protectively shielding him. Quickly he jumped off the bed and ran from the room.   
  
Michael ran all the way to the desert, trying to sort out the events of the previous night. He had been luckier as a kid, he remembered that now. And he remembered last night, when he was beaten and bruised once again. He remembered thinking about the night so many years ago, the night when a little girl had found him lost in the street. The night when a little girl had given him a purpose to live, given him a home.   
  
That little girl had been Maria, he knew that now. After a million kisses, a million fights, he still felt like he was coming home every time he saw her eyes looking at him. They burned a sense of belonging into his memory, and he knew as long as Maria was there he would have someone to run to, someone who loved him.  
  
And last night he had run to her, blindly he had found her. But this time he knew where he was going, his journey had purpose, direction. This time he wasn't a little boy, he had grown, learned more. But for her he could cry, she wouldn't laugh, for her he didn't have to pretend, because she already knew, for her he didn't have to speak, she could fill in the words on her own. And for her he could be lost, because she was his salvation.   
  



End file.
